THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


• 


The   First  Wardens 


The  First  Wardens 

Poems 

WILLIAM  J.  NEIDIG 


"  And  on   the   kej 

Of  the    great    arch    were  fifuret    militant, 
Who   tattled  long  their   standard   there    to   flant" 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:   MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1905 

All  rifhti  retervej 


Copyright,  1905 
The  Macmillan  Company 


Set  up  and  elcctrotypcd 
Printed  March,  1905 


tf>e 


of 


Contents 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  King's  Fool       ..........  i 

A  Woman's  Ring     ..........  3 

i.   The  Cry         .       .       .      ,       .      .       .      .      .  3 

ii.   Why  So  Cold  ?    .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  4 

Hi.   O,  Not  Indifference !       .      ...      .       .  5 

iv.   Reassurance 6 

v.   The  Doubt 7 

vi.   Gropings       .........  8 

vii.   Pride  of  Women        .......  9 

viii.   The  Whole  Truth      .       .      .      .    ,  .      .      .  10 

ix.   Heart-Hunger     ........  n 

x.    Indictment ...  12 

xi.   The  Wife      .........  13 

xii.   Absolution     .........  14 

Alvah  and  Azubah    .       .      ,      .      .      .      .      .      ,      .  15 

The  First  Wardens  ...      .      .      ...      .      .  20 

The  Adoration  of  the  Magi   .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  27 

Wine  of  Laurel  .      ...      ....      .      .      .  31 

Victory •      « •  33 

The  White  Guest 40 

Lex  Mundi .  48 


Contents 

Page 

The  Buoy-Bell 50 

Sea  Burial 51 

The  Soldier's  Locket 52 

Christmas  Night 53 

The  Temple  of  Art 54 

Morro  Castle             55 

Cuba ! 57 

Not  at  This  Chancel 58 

Saul  the  King 59 

Ash-of-the-Altar        , 60 

Hermon 61 

Scot  and  Lot 63 

Promise  of  Hawthorn "...  64 

In  the  Spirit  of  Romance 66 

The  Prince  of  Paupers 69 

Mission  Carmel 78 

The  Rose  of  Death 91 


The  King's  Fool 

i 


THE  KING'S  FOOL 

A  Fool  it  was,  and  took  his  Soul 
Within  his  hollowed  hands; 

He  took  his  Soul  and  smoothed  it  calm, 
And  loosed  its  strained  bands. 

"O  Soul,"  he  cried,  "you  bear  the  stain 
Of  chain-gyves  interwove ! 

Who  did  this  thing?"     The  Soul  replied 
"It  was  the  friend  I  love." 

"O  Soul,  you  have  a  flaming  brand 
Burned  on  your  nakedness ! 

Who  did  this  thing?"     The  Soul  replied 
"That  was  a  pure  caress." 

"O  Soul,  a  fissure  shows  your  heart 
Like  wound  of  bloody  sword ! 

Who  did  this  thing?"     The  Soul  replied 
"That  was  a  friendly  word." 


The  King's  Fool 

2 

"O  Soul,  you  shrink  within  my  hand, 
I  scarce  see  where  you  be ! 

Who  did  this  thing?"     The  Soul  replied  : 
"A  woman  pitied  me." 

The  Fool  laid  down  his  Soul  and  wept, 
And  knelt  him  down  beside; 

He  soothed  and  questioned  all  the  night, — 
No  Soul  of  him  replied. 


A  Woman's  Ring 


A  WOMAN'S  RING 

I 
THE  CRY 

If  I  smooth  out,  in  secret  dim  recess 

Of  this  cool  closed  page,  my  wrinkled  thought ; 

If  seeming  I  do  guard  the  deep  impress 

Of  joggled  types  too  closely,  or  in  aught 

Withhold  myself  from  you,  my  husband  dear; 

If  in  my  pride,  I  say,  I  thrust  my  face 

Into  this  cold,  sweet  pillow  lying  here, 

And  whisper  out  my  soul  in  that  lone  place, 

That  you  would  clasp  me  to  your  lips  and  breast, 

Not  as  a  child  delighting  in  a  toy, 

But  so  to  set  my  woman's  doubts  at  rest, — 

Forgive  me,  love !  it  is  because  great  joy 

Hangs  trembling  o'er  my  hand,  and  I,  your  wife, 

Have  no  more  strength  to  add  it  to  my  life. 


A  Woman's  Ring 


II 
WHY  SO  COLD  ? 

Has  my  poor  beauty  lost  its  light  so  soon, 
Or  am  I  cheapened,  loving  you  too  much  ? 
Last  night  a  primrose,  kissing  with  the  moon 
To-day  in  withered  rags,  with  fifty  such  ? 
Ah,  no !  my  glass  is  better  guide  than  that ! 
I  am  not  less  than  fair,  no  more  than  you. 
No,  no !     Here  in  my  cheek  where  beauty  sat, 
Still  is  the  seat  where  girlhood  burns  anew ; 
And  this  white  marble,  where  you  praised  my  brow, 
It  hath  not  weathered  to  less  spotless  rime ! 
Then  why  so  cold,  my  husband,  to  me  now, 
Whose  cheeks  were  glowing  too  a  little  time  ? 
Sure,  when  I  flush  and  tremble  at  your  side, 
Wonder  could  nowhere  but  in  me  abide. 


A  Woman's  Ring 


III 
O,  NOT  INDIFFERENCE! 

O,  not  indifference !     Ring  the  passing  bell 
For  the  white  company  of  all  our  days ! 
Stamp  into  ruins  the  too  fragile  shell 
We  drank  from,  you  and  I !  the  morning  haze, 
The  splendor  of  the  crowning  sun  at  noon, 
The  long  swift  shadows  slipping  down  the  slope, 
The  stain  of  sunset  rainbows,  fled  so  soon, 
Blot  it  all  out,  the  memory  with  the  hope ! 
Yes,  break  the  windows  in  our  house  of  life, 
With  every  sacred  witness  of  our  bliss, 
And  say  to  me,  "You  are  no  more  my  wife, 
I  love  you  not !"     Say  this  to  me,  say  this : 
So  shall  you,  O  my  husband,  swiftly  slay, 
Not  kill  me  slow  by  holding  me  away ! 


A  Woman's  Ring 


IV 

REASSURANCE 

You  love  me !  my  dear  husband,  now  I  know ! 
If  I  have  in  my  foolish  woman's  pain, 
When  life  hung  heavy  on  my  eyes,  breathed  low, 
To  myself  only,  but  a  word  in  vain ; 
If  I  have  been  less  than  a  wife  to  you 
Ev'n  in  this  secret  place,  with  moan  and  sigh 
Doubting  my  sweetheart  lord  if  he  be  true : 
Forgive  me,  it  was  Folly  spoke,  not  I. 
You  love  me !     Yes,  you  kissed  me  tenderly, 
And  held  me  fast  against  your  loyal  breast : 
Kissed  me  and  told  me,  told  poor  wicked  me, 
'Until  I  did  not  know  which  ear  was  guest ! 
Since  love  is  in  the  world,  speak  kindly  still, 
So  I  may  love  and  listen  all  I  will ! 


A  Woman's  Ring 


V 
THE  DOUBT 

Was  I  once  fair,  not  ugly  in  your  sight  ? 

Admired,  possessed, — though  but  as  a  rich  stone, 

To  be  put  on  or  off  as  you  had  light, 

Or  like  a  coat,  by  weathers  ?     Was  I  won, 

Borne  from  my  home  for  fair?     My  husband  dear, 

I  could  forgive  you  that  you  loved  my  eyes, 

Or  loved  the  lips  that  tremble,  others  near : — 

The  bee  loves  thus  the  bell  where  sugar  lies ; 

I  could  forgive  you  that  you  deemed  me  fair, 

Loved  my  lithe  movements,  or  some  piquant  toss 

Of  my  poor  head  beneath  its  weight  of  hair ; 

I  could  forgive  all  this,  but  not  its  loss. 

If  I  was  wed  for  beauty,  let  me  die : 

My  cheeks  are  swollen  and  my  eyes  are  dry. 


A  Woman's  Ring 


VI 
GROPINGS 

Yes,  I  can  read  it  plain :  you  are  in  love, 

And  not  with  me !     The  words  are  firm  and  black ; 

I  do  not  falter  at  the  inky  grove 

Of  oak-gall  letters  in  my  path,  alack. 

No  more  with  me !     A  stranger  hath  your  heart ! 

I  trace  with  my  dry  pen  the  knotted  line. 

O,  I  am  calm :  I  neither  weep  nor  start, 

Neither  my  voice  to  grief  nor  rage  resign, 

But  like  some  princely  rajah,  weigh  the  cost, 

Add  off  my  rubies  to  the  reddest  grain, 

And  smile  my  hurt  to  sleep  as  nothing  lost. 

So  were  I  verily  your  wife  again ! 

If  I  but  knew  who  stole  you  from  me,  dear, 

Mercy  were  swift  to  deal  with  me  as  her ! 


A  Woman's  Ring 


But  no ;  I  would  not  own  both  power  and  right ; 

It  were  poor  vengeance  to  unfold  by  day 

The  petals  blackened  by  foul  worms  at  night ; 

Let  me  still  seem  to  love  you,  all  I  may, 

Make  bold  pretence,  lest  those  who  rail  should  deem 

,We  two  were  less  than  children  of  the  sun, 

Bathed  in  the  light  that  lingers,  flesh  and  gleam 

Of  that  old  glow  in  Eden's  aisles  begun ! 

But  touch  not  on  her  name !  no,  not  by  chance, 

Not  as  you  name  the  casual  things  of  life, 

For  I  should  feel  your  too-indifferent  glance, 

And  feeling,  seem  no  more,  but  be,  your  wife ! 

I  am  but  woman,  dearest, — bitter  quick 

To  blow  a  coal  or  snuff  a  smoking  wick ! 


A  Woman's  Ring 

10 


VIII 
THE  WHOLE  TRUTH 

As  when  assassin  sighs  by  desert  springs, 
No  murder  in  them,  fearing  poison  there ; 
As  when  in  dreams  we  flee  from  monster  things 
That  leave  no  footprints  to  our  waking  care ; 
As  when,  in  an  ill-lighted,  crowded  hall, 
Men  are  stampeded  by  some  vague  alarm, 
The  taste  of  smoke,  or  glow  upon  the  wall 
Of  lightning  flash,  to  do  their  bodies  harm : 
So  have  I  perished  hourly,  and  no  cause, 
Deeming  my  fountains  poisoned,  or  my  throat 
Torn  into  whip-cords  by  some  tiger's  claws ! 
So  have  I  stumbled  at  the  vital  note ! 
No  cause,  I  said  ?     You  loved  none  other  she, 
Yet  had  at  heart  your  wisdom  more  than  me? 


A  Woman's  Ring 
ii 


IX 
HEART-HUNGER 

Only  for  you  to  lead  me  by  the  hand ; 
To  leave  the  day  of  large  things  in  its  tomb ; 
To  bend  in  spirit  o'er  me  with  the  strand 
That  holds  the  household  shuttle  to  the  loom ; 
To  be  my  quick  right  arm  in  present  strife, 
Not  waiting  for  far  battles  never  fought. 
But  showing  how  so  much  I  am  your  wife 
In  little  things  I  occupy  your  thought ! 
Ah,  could  you  love  me  with  such  minor  fire 
And  walk  with  service  ere  her  time  be  past, 
Life  would  be  infinite  beyond  desire, 
And  love  a  benediction  to  the  last! 
So  should  we  tarry  in  the  blessed  zone 
Of  utter  worship,  the  years  all  our  own ! 


A  Woman's  Ring 

12 


X 

INDICTMENT 

So  blind  with  miser  selfness  ?     Ah,  you  are ! 

O,  when  the  sun  leaps  downward  in  his  course 

Unswerved  a  gnat's-breadth  by  the  nearest  star ; 

When  this  forked  river  at  its  mountain  source 

Lies  broad  and  tanned  as  where  it  tastes  the  sea, 

And  loquats  ripen  without  leaf  or  flower, 

And  every  root  alone  sustains  the  tree, 

And  each  half  measured  singly  is  the  hour ; 

When  rainbows  with  green-crimsons  are  not  stained, 

And  music  strips  her  chords  to  the  key-note, — 

Say  then,  then  also,  not  in  manner  feigned, 

But  with  the  ice  of  winter  in  your  throat, 

"My  life  was  all  self-centered :  see  how  I 

Prove  single  good,  married  felicity !" 


A  Woman's  Ring 
13 


XI 
THE  WIFE 

Yes,  you  have  bent  your  arrow  to  the  bow 
And  shot  it  straight :  you  would  not  be  denied. 
Wealth  and  great  name  are  yours :  I  know,  I  know, — 
The  world  has  laid  such  unguents  to  your  pride. 
My  husband,  yes :  you  strung  your  honors  here, 
The  fruit  of  all  the  days  of  all  your  life, 
And  I,  not  knowing  them  so  costly  dear, 
Wore  them  a  trustful  moment  as  your  wife. 
Yes,  and  must  wear  them  still,  their  splendor  gone, 
While  precious  love  lies  sleeping  in  your  eyes 
With  smiles  and  tears,  like  dew-drops  far  withdrawn 
To  heart  of  the  wild-rose  where  honey  lies. 
O,  deem  me  not  ungrateful,  that  my  heart 
Hungers  for  sweets  not  of  your  gain  a  part ! 


A  Woman's  Ring 

14 


XII 
ABSOLUTION 

You  could  not  help  it,  dearest ;  no,  I  say, 

You  shall  not  be  reproached  with  baseness  too, 

Ev'n  in  this  journal  hidden  safe  away ; 

On  me  the  blame,  not  you,  no,  never  you ! 

For  oh,  you  showed  me  each  ambitious  peak 

From  that  first  day,  showed  me,  with  misty  breath, 

And  told  me  how  these  summits  you  would  seek 

Up  the  white  trail  with  single  mind  till  death ; 

Therefore  if  I  love  not  the  gleaming  trail 

So  well  as  I  love  you,  and  linger  so. 

Sighing  for  summer  warmth  without  avail, 

No  blame  on  you,  my  husband  of  the  snow ! 

No,  no !  nor  shall  you  ever  guess  the  pain 

With  which  my  broken  feet  press  on  again ! 


Alvah  and  Asubah 
15 


ALVAH  AND  AZUBAH 

Arose  the  woman  then  and  faced  the  black 
Gun-muzzles,  where  they  eyed  her;  for  the  man, 
Not  she,  is  pardoned ;  Alvah  gains  his  life, 
Not  she,  not  frail  Azubah.     Then  she  spake, 
Her  voice  a  vibrant  peal  behind  closed  doors, 
Half  loud,  half  wasted,  as  though  all  the  bells 
Of  faith  and  fear  were  ringing  in  her  soul. 
But  Alvah  gave  no  sign  :  lest  his  sealed  pardon 
Should  fade  like  bubble  breathed  on,  his  locked  lips 
Refused  farewell,  and  he  unheeding  turned 
From  her  who  loved  him,  to  the  life  he  loved. 
Which  seeing,  she  grew  pale  as  woman  dead. 

"How  whitely  lies  this  snow  on  my  cold  friend ! 
How  soon,  O  Alvah!  hath  this  bloom  of  frost 
Brightened  thy  virtue !     Oh,  I  deemed  thy  love 
The  very  Maytime  anchored  in  the  year 
As  oak  in  the  forest ;  deemed  thy  spoken  music 


16 

No  protestation  of  dead  boughs  in  the  wind, 
But  very  heart  of  the  harp,  soul  of  the  soul ! 
And  now  thou  standest  frosted,  alien,  dead, 
Ice  on  thy  boughs  and  winter  in  thy  veins ! 

"One  moment  since,  how  we  together  kneeled 
Hand  in  warm  hand  before  the  spattered  wall, 
Counting  the  bullet  lead-marks  on  the  stone: 
Waiting  the  word  to  close  out  all  our  light, 
Life's  last,  death's  first  parole,  the  border-word ! 
And  then,  instead  of  that  dread  word,  how  still 
Muttered  the  mulling  priest,  and  clattering  hoofs 
Made  dilatory  progress  down  the  road 
An  age  or  two ;  and  we  looked  life  in  the  eye, 
We  twain  together !     Then  one  turned  to  me, 
Saying,  if  I  had  word  to  leave  on  earth 
More,  I  must  speak  it  now, — no  word  but  one, — 
For  Alvah  hath  reprieve  from  the  good  Queen. 
The  woman's  sentence  stands.     He  then  explained 
That  sin  in  woman  is  like  pitch  in  snow ; 
That  she  who  is  the  measure  and  the  light, 


Alvah  and  Azubah 
17 

The  promise  and  fulfillment,  depth  and  breadth, 

Of  daily  life, — true  compass  to  the  North, 

Plummet  to  test  walls  by,  the  level  sea, 

One  of  God's  host  star-flung  across  the  sky, 

And  other  beautiful  vagueness  men  have  held, — 

That  she  may  not  defile  her  beauty  lightly. 

That  if  she  only  were  less  shamefully 

Scornful  of  law  and  name,  less  stubborn  in 

Her  wrenched  allegiance,  deeming  it  a  virtue 

Not  to  renounce  until  she  is  renounced, 

Repentance  were  not  so  late ;  but  praised  be  God 

The  fear  of  sinful  death  redeems  the  man ! 

The  knot  of  the  matter  being,  Alvah  there 

By  timely  penitence  retrieves  his  life, 

Builds  dykes  and  saves  his  towers;  whilst  I,  a 

woman, 

Eager  to  die  in  glory,  as  I  dreamed, 
Wake  in  this  crowded  empty  field  to  die. 

"Poor  life:  'twas  dear  to  him!     Alvah,  farewell! 
Alvah !  he  will  not  even  toll  goodbye 


Alvah  and  Azubah 

18 

From  his  black  belfry  :  will  not  say  Godspeed ! 
Not  twist  the  shuttered  windows  for  one  last 
Last  look  on  me  that  thought  I  loved  him  well : 
That  loved  him  well,  alas !  and  love  him  still ! 

"He  will  not  turn  for  me?     He  will  not  see? 

Kind  globe  the  Earth,  in  all  your  vales,  in  all 

Your  fragrant  forests,  all  your  mountainside, 

Plains,  deserts,  glacier-peaks,  wherever  love 

Treads  or  shall  tread,  in  stillness  of  what  night 

Or  glare  of  noon,  if  there  be  any  dell 

So  inaccessible  to  dust  of  him 

Living  or  dead,  no  atom  of  himself 

May  lodge  in  it,  by  wind,  rain,  snow  or  ice, 

Earthquake  or  cataclysm,  man  or  beast, 

O  let  me  there  be  laid  to  lie  at  rest ! 

Alvah !     I  well  have  loved  what  you  are  not, 

Repenting  me  more  than  you  ever  can 

What  was  indeed  a  sin :  God  pity  me ! 

"Stand  straight?  and  face  the  front?  I  thank  you,  sir. 


Alvah  and  Asubah 
19 

Well,  then!     I  pin  this  knot  above  my  heart 
So,  and  you  aim,  no  wavering,  at  the  pit, 
And  the  ripe  fruit  is  seeded.     That  is  done. 
Now,  when  you  are  ready  .  .  .  Ah !" 

Far  down  the  road 

A  foaming  horse  throws  out  his  shaggy  knees, 
Bearing  his  master  to  cathedral-close 
For  shrift  of  easance.     Alvah  hath  reprieve. 


The  First  Wardens 

20 


THE  FIRST  WARDENS 

I 

They  sealed  the  sepulchre  with  what  pure  lid 
The  angel  lifted,  that  first  Easter  morn ; 
No  silver  laced,  nor  gold  the  marble  hid, 
Nor  wealthy  woods  their  cavern  might  adorn, 
Nor  sweep  of  lanthorned  dome,  nor  pyramid 
Of  stains  and  glazings ;  nor,  in  bronzes  borne, 
Incense  past  price  made  fragrant  their  rude  room ; 
They  waived  all  that,  the  monks  that  kept  the  tomb. 

II 

Down  the  still  lanes  of  peace  they  walked  alway, 
Where  saintly  lineaments  grow  softly  clear 
In  sunset  legend :  breathing  but  to  pray ; 
Drinking  deep  draughts  of  easement  all  the  year ; 
Not  beauty's  strenuous  wine,  but  every  day 
The  nectar  from  calm  fountains,  and  the  cheer 
Of  faith  secure  that  blesses  with  its  peace 
Soul,  sense  and  mind :  faith  hath  such  sure  surcease. 


The  First  Wardens 

21 

III 

No  tarnish  their  white  master  might  condemn ; 
No  stress,  no  conflict,  nothing  of  defeat; 
Not  any  eager  plucking  at  the  stem 
That  droops  with  fragrant  fruit  in  gardens  sweet ; 
No :  they  must  win  their  deathless  diadem 
Unstained  by  sully  of  the  field  or  street ; 
They  bound  on  cavern  altars  all  their  thought, 
Which  leapt  up  smoke-like  for  the  peace  they  sought. 


IV 


They  kept  no  day  with  lilies  of  delight ; 
They  were  not  first  with  robes  for  Easter-time ; 
They  were  not  first  to  sing  the  stone  of  night 
Rolled  from  the  buried ;  were  not  first  to  climb 
One  eastern  peak  where  splendor  bursteth  bright ; 
They  did  not  run  with  chisel  or  with  rime 
In  beauty's  salutation  on  the  earth, 
The  great  first  souls  in  enterprise  of  worth. 


The  First  Wardens 

22 

V 

Ah,  no ;  they  waived  the  beautiful  and  fair ; 
There  was  no  easelessness  in  their  confine ; 
He  that  must  mould  the  marble  was  not  there, 
For  peace  was  there,  and  not  unrest  divine ; — 
The  master's  burin  fails  for  all  his  care ; 
The  maker  traces  still  his  dim  design ; 
The  seer  rues  his  vision ;  naught  is  right 
In  sight  of  poet  or  in  prophet's  sight. 

VI 

No ;  they  held  off  from  beauty,  lest  their  peace 
Should  fade  like  vapor  breathed  upon  bright  steel ; 
They  could  not  rise  from  their  redeemed  knees ; 
They  could  not  hear  it  that  sweet  matin-peal 
Called  them  to  glorious  task,  but  by  degrees 
Crept  from  this  life  in  thought  as  they  did  kneel. 
So  saith  dim-lettered  legend,  and  it  saith 
Their  names  are  no  more  known,  nor  when  their 
death. 


The  First  Wardens 
23 

VII 

They  passed ;  and  Constantine  set  his  hard  brand 

Upon  the  stone,  and  builded  wondrously 

Over  above  where  his  scarred  shields  did  stand ; 

His  captains  added  gold  from  oversea ; 

And  tesselated  pavements  by  their  hand 

Were  laid  in  splendid  naves;  and  on  the  key 

Of  the  great  arch  were  figures  militant 

Who  battled  long  their  standard  there  to  plant. 

VIII 

Aye,  battled  long,  in  such  fierce  whirlwind  war — 
Kings,  poets,  builders,  Davids  from  the  field, 
Wide-visioned  Solomon  with  plummet-star 
Proving  his  towers — all,  all  upon  that  shield 
Made  desperate  cause  for  place  in  glory's  car ; 
Among  the  zenith  planets,  half-revealed 
To  tense  white  worshipers  from  far-off  lands, 
They    battled    long,    with    smoke-stained    knotted 
hands. 


The  First  Wardens 

24 

IX 

They  battle  still :  for  beauty  hath  no  bell 

To  toll  her  legions  into  beds  of  ease ; 

Her  loom  knows  no  repose ;  she  sees  not  well 

How  monks  may  weave  their  narrow  convent-frieze ; 

Her  cloth,  as  cobweb  filmy,  doth  excel 

Time  in  its  width ;  and  all  her  knights  may  seize 

Of  gold  and  steel  she  twists  into  its  weft 

While  gold  endures,  and  precious  steel  is  left. 


X 


They  battle  still !  the  sepulchre  is  still 

The  symbol  of  our  winning :  its  high  dome, 

Dashed  with  the  spray  of  conflict,  crowns  the  hill 

Of  this  world's  war,  unshaken  by  its  foam ; 

Still  do  we  bear  our  bounty  to  the  mill 

Of  hard  endeavor ;  and  we  gather  home 

High  splendors,  virtues,  burdens,  golden  deeds, 

In  measure  of  our  hopes  and  of  our  needs. 


The  First  Wardens 
25 

XI 

Oh,  still  the  flail  must  purge  the  temple  mart ! 
He  that  would  light  this  world  unto  his  dream 
Still  seize  the  brand  of  battle,  and  depart 
Upon  the  crowded  highway  with  his  beam ! 
Yes,  whether  poet  of  the  burning  heart, 
Or  prophet  with  the  truth  of  God  in  him, 
He  must  work  beauty  on  the  world  in  strife, 
Or  pass,  and  yield  no  solace  of  his  life ! 


XII 


Ah,  beauty  was  not  dead,  not  dead,  that  day 
When  Pilate  forced  the  shining  chancel  door, 
The  slender  chancel  door  that  barred  his  way, 
Whose  workmanship  no  Pilate  could  restore ! 
And  think  you  'twas  not  raised  from  where  it  lay 
To  stir  men's  souls  by  all  it  cost  the  more? 
By  all  it  cost,  whose  wonder  will  not  die, 
The  love,  the  care,  the  travail  pure  and  high? 


The  First  Wardens 

26 

XIII 

Dear  Christ !  so  long  ago,  so  long  ago ! 

The  years  of  labor  and  ripe  discontent, 

How  they  are  fair !     How  long  the  symbol  bow 

Of  armed  centuries  in  stone  hath  bent 

O'er  the  great  sepulchre  to  hold  it  so ! 

Never,  O  never  may  that  bolt  be  spent ! 

We  need  its  strength  and  beauty :  we  would  part 

Not  with  one  whit  of  all  its  costly  art ! 


•  J  J?  s*ory  1S  that  the  true  cavern  of  the  sepulchre  of  Christ  was  occu 
pied,  during  the  second  or  third  century,  by  a  company  of  religionists ;  and 
that  when  Constantine  usurped  the  tomb  he  raised  his  basilica  over  the 
rock  they  had  guarded. 


The  Adoration  of  the  Magi 
27 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  MAGI 

They  came  and  kneeled.     The  kings  of  all  the  world 
Stole  down  the  star-lit  lane,  their  banners  furled, 
Ev'n  to  the  manger,  and  at  dim  midnight 
Laid  this  world's  goods  before  the  Child  of  light. 

I  saw  a  magus  hoar  with  frost  of  trade ; 

He  kneeled  beside  a  plate  of  costly  jade, — 

A  stone  rejected,  now  become  the  head 

And  glory  of  the  hall,  with  symbols  spread. 

He  brought  a  grail,  of  gules,  from  Pharaoh's  seat, 

Twined  all  with  tendrils  for  remembrance  meet ; 

Balsams  he  brought,  for  wounds,  and  jars  of  myrrh 

Sealed  with  the  seals  of  Herod's  magister; 

He  brought  sheet-lightnings  caught  up  in  a  gem, 

And  inky  seas,  and  foaming  pearls  with  them, 

And  curious  beaten  network  of  red-thorn 

On  frosted  bronze,  Christ's  temples  to  adorn. 


The  Adoration  of  the  Magi 

28 

And  then  with  flaming  hands  he  heaped  rich  gold 
Upon  the  mighty  jade,  all  it  would  hold. 

I  saw  a  magus  ridged  with  thews  of  steel ; 

He  was  bowed  down  beneath  a  shining  wheel, 

The  symbol  of  his  hope  and  of  his  toil. 

He  laid  it  king-like  on  the  sacred  soil, 

Then,  as  upon  an  altar,  he  strewed  there 

Palm-sprays  bedewed  with  jewels  of  his  care. 

A  sceptre  fashioned  from  a  shepherd's  crook, 

Down  its  light  shaft  old  letters  from  a  book : 

A  seamless  cloak  wove  on  a  virgin  loom : 

These  all  he  added  to  his  altar's  bloom. 

And  lest  these  fade,  gold  from  the  mines  he  poured 

In  brightness  as  the  chariot  of  the  Lord. 

The  third  sage  that  I  saw,  with  dreamy  eyes 
Brought  visions  Mary's  child  may  not  despise : — 
An  etched  plate,  deep  and  dark — Gethsemane, 
Or  some  Christ-passion  and  no  stars  to  see ; 
He  brought  a  lidded  casket  lined  with  lead, 


The  Adoration  of  the  Magi 
29 

That  held  the  lettered  tablets  of  the  dead ; 
The  city  of  the  Lord,  in  tender  thought 
Of  laced  and  fretted  ivory,  he  brought ; 
He  brought  a  scroll  of  wonders — poesies. 
And  tales  prophetic  stained  with  evening  skies ; 
And  last,  his  dearest  gift,  the  blazing  keys 
That  open  every  door :  of  stamped  gold  these. 

Ah  me !  they  brought  their  gold  to  heaven's  hall, 
But  when  they  peered  behind  the  gilded  stall, 
It  was  not  Christ  dawned  golden  on  their  sight ! 
They  saw  the  Mammon  Child  that  Christmas  night ! 
Yes,  each  brought  costliest  tribute  he  could  save ; 
Each  took  away  the  costliest  thought  he  gave : 
For  then  and  now  the  Christ  is  as  the  gift; 
We  find  our  faith  behind  each  veil  we  lift ; 
And  then  as  now  when  men  have  gold  to  do, 
It  hardens  to  a  god  for  worship  too ! 

Do  we  most  value  what  our  labor  brings, 
Bow  down  to  gilded  art  and  showy  things  ? 


The  Adoration  of  the  Magi 

30 

Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  moulded  wheel 
To  snatch  men's  souls  to  glory  where  they  kneel  ? 
Is  so  the  blare  more  than  the  workmanship  ? 
Is  now  no  joy  upon  the  trembling  lip 
To  sing  the  gleam  of  beauty  or  of  worth 
That  is  foretaste  of  heaven  upon  earth, 
Save  it  bring  plunder  home,  and  shining  praise  ? 
Are  we  so  fallen  upon  merchant  days? 
Then  are  we  still  in  worship  as  of  old 
Running  to  Christ  with  merit  of  our  gold, — 
And  still  as  then  we  see  the  changeling  nod, 
The  end  of  all  men's  labor  each  man's  god ! 


Wine  of  Laurel 
31 


WINE  OF  LAUREL 

Now,  who  are  thou  in  bright  moonlight 

Dost  rise  from  bloody  bed? 
Thou  Shape,  am  I  a  scourge  of  souls, 

To  seek  quarrels  with  the  dead  ? 

Now,  who  art  thou  with  hungry  hands 
Dost  ride  down  dead  man's  lane? 

Thou  Shape,  I  slew  thee,  bones  and  all ! 
Dost  thou  seek  death  again  ? 

I  slew  thy  set  and  gleaming  eyes  : 

I  slew  thy  dripping  heart : 
I  slew  the  hatred  on  thy  breath, 

Dead  man  as  thou  art ! 

Yea,  horseman  of  the  shining  eyes, 

I  slew  thee,  root  and  stem ! 
I  have  no  quarrel  with  dead  men's  skulls 

To  ring  my  steel  on  them ! 


Wine  of  Laurel 

32 

Then  swerve  thou  not,  thou  grisly  gleam, 

With  death-dew  on  thy  brow, — 
Though  thou  shouldst  ride  through  stone  and  steel 

Thou  canst  not  fright  me  now : 

For  thou  art  but  a  dead  man's  bones, 

Tossed  out  with  mouldy  things, 
And  I  am  master  of  the  field, 

The  friend  and  fear  of  kings ! 


Victory 
33 


VICTORY 


O  strength  that  strideth  over  broken  ground 
Into  the  dusk!  O  vigor  unrenowned! 
Toil-tempered  Demos !    Yes,  the  victor  still, 
Fighting  for  foothold  on  his  harrowed  hill ! 

II 

To  strive,  and  fall  at  last,  and  conquer  so ! 
This  shaft  in  the  world-forest,  thus  to  grow, 
To  raise  its  head,  and  die, — and  with  its  blood 
Seed  the  inert  to-morrows  unto  good ! 

Ill 

Where  was  the  dawn  of  battle  down  the  race  ? 
In  what  far  sunset  shall  the  umpire's  mace 
Beat  back  the  hills  of  war,  fill  the  last  gulf 
'Twixt  fang  and  fang,  cheetah  and  shaggy  wolf  ? 


Victory 

34 

IV 

The  panther  in  the  glade  still  pays  his  feud ; 
And  he  that  slays,  his  breast  is  ruddy-hued : 
Aye,  both  have  left  strong  sons  to  feed  the  fire ; 
Aye,  harder  wood  than  this  shall  top  the  pyre ! 


V 


Since  that  first  angry  ant-hill  rose  in  wrath, 
Poured  out  his  hosts  to  scourge  the  forest-path 
Of  its  young  menace,  Christ  hath  dreamed  and  bled- 
And  still  the  grasses  redden  with  blood  shed ! 


VI 


Aye,  my  brown  brother-plowman !  when  the  stone 
That  crowns  to-morrow's  dead  lies  with  your  own 
Crumbled  in  ash  a  hundred  thousand  years, 
A  plowman  still  shall  sow  his  field  with  tears ! 


Victory 

35 

VII 

With  blood,  and  tears,  and  seedings  as  to-day ! 
Aye,  seedsman !  thou  shalt  wear  thy  life  away 
Upon  the  soil  reluctant,  wheat  and  tare, 
Until  thy  toiling  children  shroud  thee  there! 

VIII 

Aye,  till  thy  manhood's  evening  shalt  thou  be, 
Brown  seedsman,  brawny-armed  and  bold  of  knee 
As  he  thy  Tubal  sire,  to  hold  in  trust 
Forge,  share  and  sword  from  capture  and  from  rust ! 


IX 


Aye,  the  last  acorn  on  the  tree  of  life, 
Flower  of  those  hundred  thousand  years  of  strife, 
Still  must  it  suck  its  fibre  from  the  storm, 
And  fight  for  sunshine  still  to  keep  it  warm ! 


Victory 

36 

X 

And  he  that  grafts  his  bitter  stock  long  time 
With  this  and  that  of  sweetness  at  its  prime, 
Shall  he,  engrossed  in  the  loaden  bough, 
Still  scorn  such  hardy  ichor,  all  as  now  ? 


XI 


Oh,  shall  he  cherish  still  the  jeweled  sword 
Of  golden  Caesar,  win  the  golden  word, 
And  fall  asleep,  long  seated  at  the  feast, 
To  dream  of  golden  cities  in  the  East  ? 

XII 

Master  of  fairest-fortuned  flower  that  blows, 
To  dream  of  some  far- favored  fairer  rose  ? 
All  those  slim  bridges  from  the  soul  to  earth, 
His  senses,  sealed  to  snow-bells  of  no  worth  ? 


Victory 
37 

XIII 

Ah,  my  brown  giant :  life's  last  victory 
Is  brimming  cup  enough  for  you  and  me ! 
Deep  cup  enough — to  fight,  and  fight,  and  fall, 
Until  your  blood  is  reddest  blood  of  all ! 

XIV 

Long  hath  that  goldsmith  Day  the  jeweled  skies 
Set  forth  for  Night  to  sell  where  no  one  buys ; 
And  he  will  take  them  in  and  set  them  out 
And  polish  them  still  longer,  do  not  doubt. 

XV 

Aeons  and  cycles  round  the  white  abyss 
Their  burning  took  them,  fiery-hued  ere  this ; 
Cycles  and  aeons  must  they  burnish  still 
Down  harshest  night,  their  lustre  to  fulfill. 


Victory 

38 

XVI 

Until  each  myriad  moon  is  ground  to  dust : 
Each  smouldering  sun,  against  the  wheel  a-thrust, 
Lies  all  dispersed  in  stain  of  Milky  Way ; 
Until  the  kindlier,  softer,  final  day ! 

XVII 

Aye,  till  the  Ultimate  Law  life's  little  laws 
Transcends  in  larger  cycles,  end  and  cause, 
Strife  shall  not  lose  her  sceptre, — nor  the  brawn 
Earned  of  the  soil  be  held  from  earth  in  pawn ! 

XVIII 

Then  stand  thou  fast  above  this  battle-mould : 
For  thou  shalt  plant  it  thick,  and  not  with  gold, — 
Yea,  reap,  O  seedsman!  as  thy  hand  hath  sped. 
Ere  good-night  belfry  tolls  thy  brawn  to  bed ! 


Victory 

39 

XIX 

Oh,  stand  thou  steadfast  where  thy  frame  was  won ! 
Be  sure  thy  steel  shall  quicken,  ere  the  sun, 
Drooping  anew  from  stalk  in  earth's  dull  pot, 
Strews  Bloom-o'-Stars  o'er  the  King's  garden-plot! 


XX 


Sweet  are  the  violet  fields  where  we  must  fight ; 

White  blows  the  lily  where  we  weep  to-night ; 

Red  blooms  the  blood  of  saints,  where  we  should 

pray; 
So  life  makes  victors  of  us,  all  she  may! 


The  White  Guest 

40 


THE  WHITE  GUEST 

"Bind  her  brow  austere  with  laurel ; 
Place  in  her  hand  th'  oblivious  lyre ; 
Hide  from  her  eyes  all  strife  and  quarrel ; 
Deck  her  this  once  in  silk  attire ! 

"Plait  her  dark  hair  with  snowiest  grasses : 
No  red-eyed  daughters  of  the  earth ; 
No  palsied  posies  from  the  morasses; 
Hers  the  glad  ichor :  wine  and  mirth ! 

"Stir  her  with  no  funeral  measure : 
She  shall  indulge  the  wine's  caprice; 
Aye,  she  shall  be  well  wed  to  pleasure ! 
This  is  no  day  for  song  to  cease. 

"She  shall  be  blind  to  Cain's  black  brow ; 
She  shall  be  deaf  to  Esau's  grief ; 
She  shall  not  waste  her  features  now 
In  tears,  and  furrowed  unbelief. 


The  White  Guest 
41 

"She  shall  be  merry — aye,  she  shall ! 

She  shall  be  glad — aye,  laugh  for  glee ! 

Aye,  glad  at  this  our  festival ! 

Aye,  choked  with  song  and  laughter,  she!" 

Now  is  the  stain  of  the  grape  on  the  fingers  : 
Now  is  the  breath  and  glare  and  tumult 
Fierce  of  the  feast :  now  is  the  zenith  : 
The  utter  gleam  of  shimmering  purple, 
Of  crystal  gold-purfled :  the  shiver  of  argent 
And  ardor  of  rubies :  the  snow  and  the  fire 
And  bloom  of  the  banquet :  now  is  the  summit ! 
Calm  midst  the  clamor  of  throats,  and  the  flourish 
And  bravery  of  pledges,  with  face  unsearchable, 
Seated  on  dais  majestic,  the  guest, 
Her  awful  features  shrouded  in  marble, 
Broodeth  in  silence;  with  eyes  unclouded 
She  of  the  mountains  watcheth  the  wassail : 
Watcheth  decanter,  tankard  and  flagon, 
Jorum  and  cruise,  kiss  lips  in  her  honor : 
Watcheth  the  pounding  of  stein  and  beaker, 


The  White  Guest 

42 

Posnet  and  pipkin  and  horn :  what  chalice 
Or  stoup  will  hold  wine,  or  stand  in  the  pledges ; 
Equally  each  with  each  in  bumpers 
Challenging  her,  the  mighty  presence, 
Alas,  with  toast  unsteadily  fashioned ! 

She,  the  one-minded  daughter  of  worship, 

Sitteth  as  marble:  broodeth  in  silence: 

Riseth,  'mid  dripping  of  pledges,  in  silence : 

Fareth  away,  with  face  unsearchable, 

Far  from  the  glittering  temples,  the  service 

And  priesthood  of  clamor :  the  praise  and  the  pledges 

Spread  for  her  whose  smile  is  not  flattered. 


II 


"Oh,  who  hath  heard  her  high  decree, 
And  where  is  she,  that  she  may  heal 
And  save  us,  make  us  free? 
Have  ye  not  seen  her  lightly  steal, 
Skirting  the  city's  tumult,  bound 


The  White  Guest 
43 

For  countryside,  where  health  is  found? 
Oh,  where  is  she,  that  we  may  touch 
Her  garment's  hem,  for  virtue  such 
As  lies  therein,  that  we  may  hear 
Eloquent  wisdom  from  her  lips, 
And  bow  our  heads,  and  worship  there, 
And  bless  her  healing  finger-tips  ? 

"Evil  is  grown  up  with  the  good  ? 

Justice  hath  no  sure  abode? 

Men  ask  with  stained  lips,  And  where 

Is  this  unsullied  presence  fair? 

They  have  not  seen  her :  if  she  be 

Filling  her  arms  upon  the  lea 

With  native  poppies,  or  have  climbed 

Over  the  mountain,  how  shall  they, 

Imagination  all  begrimed, 

Celebrate  her  praise  to-day  ? 

Let  her  come  forth  and  stand  here  now, 

That  men  again  may  crown  her  brow !" 


The  White  Guest 

44 

Far  from  the  praise :  far,  far  from  the  fruitless 

Praise  inconsequent,  far  hath  she  wandered 

From  this,  from  this !     Deep  in  her  forests, 

Long  hath  she  strayed,  where  health  is,  and  vigor, 

Shaping  her  verdict,  burning  her  statute, 

On  tree  and  rock ;  on  tablets  of  granite 

She  of  the  giants  writeth  for  giants 

During  the  ages  message  unforgeable : 

Not  here,  not  in  democracy's  fiat. 

Not  in  the  clamorous  purple  of  wassail, 

But  one  with  the  laws  and  forces  of  God : 

"Freedom  hath  never  smiled  on  men 

Save  they  were  strong :  how  often,  then !" 

Ill 

Lo  in  the  East 
Soft  on  the  heights 
The  light  of  a  glory, 
The  glow  of  a  presence, 
Staining  the  edge 


The  White  Guest 
45 

Of  night,  and  melting 
The  shadows  of  omen ! 
Long  hath  she  wandered : 
Long  hath  the  darkness 
Compassed  her  people : 
Now  is  it  morning ! 
Now  is  the  fervor 
Of  day,  and  the  heat 
And  light  of  the  sun! 

She  cometh,  she  cometh,  she  cometh, 

She  cometh  to  welcome  her  sons : 

Her  chariot  emblazoned  with  fire : 

Her  trumpets  the  bellowing  guns! 

She  openeth  her  gates  through  the  mountains : 

She  placeth  her  seal  on  the  plains : 

She  marketh  the  sites  of  her  cities : 

Hope  beateth  high  in  her  veins! 

Where  are  the  myrmidons  now 

Up  from  the  valleys  of  sloth  ? 

The  flush  of  a  day  new-born 


The  White  Guest 

46 

Lies  on  her  radiant  brow  : 

The  pestilent  children  of  scorn, 

Are  they  fled  to  their  pestilent  slough  ? 

Does  it  not  stir  you,  citizens, 
Who  pride  in  her  white  residence, 
To  see  these  banners  bold? 
This  resolute  San  Francisco,  this 
Free  city,  this  cosmopolis, 
This  civilization's  eager  strife, 
This  multitudinous  busy  life — 
Does  it  not  stir  you,  citizens  ? 
Why,  under  Saturn  there  is  not 
A  state  more  richly  veined  with  gold, 
A  soil  more  prodigal,  a  spot 
More  adequately  blessed  of  God ! 
If  mountain-minded,  as  of  old, 
She  would  leave  those  peaks  untrod, 
E'en  those  Sierras  hoar,  her  hours 
To  spend  midst  California's  flowers ! 
Does  it  not  stir  you,  citizens, 


The  White  Guest 

47 

That  by  this  matchless  crowded  bay 
Freedom  is  come  for  residence, 
To  stay  here,  if  she  may? 

So  men  to  her  and  each  be  true, 
Bringing  bright  God-deeds  as  her  due, 
Freedom  will  here  abide :  and  thou, 
O  vessel  of  the  westward  prow, 
And  thou,  O  seaman,  know  long  time 
Her,  and  her  starry  brow  sublime! 


Lex  Mundi 

48 


LEX  MUNDI 

I  rule:  my  word  is  on  the  sea 
And  continents  of  eld;  each  knee, 
Since  and  till  chaos,  bends  to  me. 

I  am  the  East  and  West :  my  veins 
Are  hot  with  conflict ;  on  my  plains, 
Smoking  of  war,  I  heap  my  grains. 

I  am  the  North  and  South:  my  ice 
Lies  carved  in  no  sun-wrought  device ; 
My  flowers,  with  travail  I  paid  their  price. 

I  am  the  Old  and  New :  I  sought, 

Fought,  conquered,  and  grew  strong ;  and  naught 

Of  let  has  softened  the  steel  I  wrought. 

I  stand  till  the  last  victorious  toast : 
Pledge  of  a  people  toil-engrossed : 
Freedom,  who  loveth  the  victor  most! 

Mine  is  the  brawn  of  earth's  old  war; 
Who  bred  these  bones,  strong  ancestor, 
His  flint  be  still  accounted  for ! 


The  Buoy-Bell 
49 


THE  BUOY-BELL 

Bell!  Bell! 

Bell  that  rideth  the  breakers'  crest, 
Bell  of  the  shallows,  tell,  O  tell : 
The  swell  and  fall  of  foam  on  the  sand, 
Storm  in  the  face  from  sea  to  land, 
Roar  of  gray  tempest :  these,  O  bell, 
What  say  these  of  the  West  ? 

Tell!  Otell! 

Bell!  Bell! 

Crowding  the  night  with  cries,  O  tell : 
What  of  the  moorings  in  the  silt? 
What  of  the  blooms  that  drift  and  wilt  ? 
What  of  the  sea-chest  wrenched  wide? 
Is  it  safe  harbor  by  thy  side? 
Bell  that  rideth  the  breakers'  crest, 
What  say  these  of  the  West  ? 

Tell!  Otell! 


The  Buoy-Bell 

50 

Bell!  Bell! 
It  is  a  dirge  the  bell  is  tolling, 

A  dirge  for  the  silent  dead, — 
With  the  cold  sea  rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 

Rolling  each  restless  head. 
Bell  that  rideth  the  breakers'  crest, 
O,  when  will  they  lie  all  quietly, 

Untossed  by  the  slow  sea-swell : 
Nor  breakers  brave  on  the  gray  sea-beach, 
.    Nor  ceaseless  crash  of  the  cresting  sea, 
Nor  booming  headland's  sullen  knell, 

Nor  bell,  for  elegy  ? 
When  is  the  last  tide  out  of  the  West, 
And  the  last  restless  dream  for  each  ? 
Tell !O  tell! 

Toll!  toll!  toll! 
Toll  for  the  ebbing  tide : 
Toll  for  the  lives  that  outward  ride : 
Toll  for  the  deep-delved  cold  sea-seat : 
Night  in  the  West  at  every  beat ! 

Toll!  toll! 


Sea  Burial 


SEA  BURIAL 

A  winding  sheet,  a  broadside  for  the  brave, 

A  light  on  the  blue  sea  one  instant  known, 

A  work  unfinished —     Where  his  dust  was  strewn 

Is  no  more  battle.     Sea-moss  shades  his  grave ; 

Coolness  of  coral  spans  his  pearl-strewn  cave: 

Nor  Pharaoh's  vaults  more  deaf  to  the  sands  blown, 

Nor  silk  cocoons  more  soft,  in  Maytime  grown, 

Before  the  summer  frees  the  textile  slave ! 

O  give  me,  Star,  my  rest  beneath  the  sea ! 

There  let  me  lie,  and  let  the  deaf  swells  roll, 

Or  craggy  cliffs,  like  belfries  wild  and  free, 

In  palpitating  peals  my  requiem  toll! 

But  grant  me  first  my  work  may  finished  be : 

No  sap-wood,  when  the  axe  strikes  through  the  boll ! 


The  Soldier's  Locket 

52 


THE  SOLDIER'S  LOCKET 

Bend  thy  clear  eyes  upon  this  knotted  ground ; 
Smooth  out  the  clods  where  these  old  fortunes  lie : — 
O  locket  Lura,  earth  how  old  and  dry 
That  once  thou  blessedest !    Do  thou  still  this  mound 
Plant  with  thy  rose  of  faith,  and  it  be  crowned ! 
O,  do  thou  still  kneel  by  my  grave  when  I, 
Trenched  in  this  alien  clay,  no  longer  sigh, 
And  with  sweet  holy  flowers  my  dust  surround ! 
Thou  lingerest  far,  alas,  from  murdered  me, 
Where  the  white  roses  grow  in  gardens  blest ! 
Then  in  God's  gardens  rest  my  merit  now : 
O,  there  my  soul's  safe  sanctuary  be, — 
And,  though  I  see  thee  not,  thy  locket  brow 
Lie  blushing  long  upon  my  crimsoned  breast! 


Christmas  Night 
S3 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT 

They  crowd  from  the  black  belfries ;  misty  forms, 

Padres  with  swinging  censers,  neophytes, 

In  slow  white  funeral  choir — clandestine  rites 

As  of  the  dead  —  sweep  shrineward.      "Midnight 

warms," 

Sighs  a  near  shape,  which  stands,  with  tossing  arms ; 
"Alas !"  and  echoes  from  the  vaulted  heights, 
"Alas !  alas !"  They  surge :  and  now  he  smites ; 
Hot  steams  the  incense-breath,  and  all  in  swarms 
Pale  vaporous  things  press  round  a  bloody  bier, 
And  sigh  and  sigh :  "O  dreadful  angry  soul, 
Strike  quickly,  lest  thy  bride  forever  here 
Shrink  from  thy  knife,  and  ever  grow  more  fair !" 
Ah  me!  that  Barbara's  bells  should  softly  toll 
This  Christmas  night,  and  she  and  he  be  there ! 


The  Temple  of  Art 

54 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  ART 

Poets,  make  room !  one  other  at  the  shrine 

Of  pale  resolve  and  bitter  compassment 

Kneels  with  his  candle  for  the  flame  slow-sent ! 

Lo,  on  the  altar  writ  with  names  that  shine 

He,  too,  would  weigh  out  myrrh  and  fragrant  pine ! 

Bright   dreams!   white  deeds,   who  knows?  much 

splendor  lent 

To  the  wide  halls  of  Truth !  new  rainbows  bent ! 
The  candid  temple  with  new  light  divine 
Vaulted,  till  thought  is  silent,  beauteous  place! 
O  Heart' of  Fire,  bleed  on  this  candle  small ! 
Let  it  be  named  with  them  that  kindle  grace 
Along  blear  isle  and  arch  and  beetling  wall ! 
So  may  the  world  it  with  the  rest  embrace, 
Saying,  this  lamp  hath  light  to  give  the  hall. 


Morro  Castle 

55 

MORRO  CASTLE 

I 

It  is  Havana's  rock  of  sighs, 
And  from  her  weary  walls  doth  rise 
What  whisper  of  the  clank  of  chain : 
Riseth  what  wasteful  dull  disdain? 
Where  battlemented  Morro  breaks 
The  still  blue  sky,  where  ocean  shakes 
Upon  the  tunneled  flint  his  locks, 
To  dry  them  on  Cabana's  rocks, 
Cometh  a  woman  day  by  day 
With  tears  to  wear  the  stone  away : 
With  tears  to  melt  Esteban  free. 
Ah,  girl !  thou  art  not  calm  as  he ! 
"Morro !O  Morro!" 

II 

"What  if  her  tears  are  but  begun, 
And  he  shall  see  her  eyes  ?"  quoth  one. 


Morro  Castle 

56 

They  guide  her  down  the  mazy  deep ; 
The  salt  ooze  drippeth  in  a  dream; 
What  recketh  she  of  dungeon-keep  ? 
She  treadeth  where  fair  jewels  gleam. 
They  bring  her  to  the  tamer's  cage : 
Well  may  he  roar,  well  may  he  rage, 
Her  best-beloved,  to  see  her  there, 
To  see  her  sweated  brow  and  hair ! 
Ah,  rock  of  sorrows,  thou  hast  wrung 
What  from  Esteban's  halting  tongue? 
"Morro!OMorro!" 


Cuba 
57 


CUBA! 

Cuba,  when  I  regard  how  thou  art  torn, 
And  by  whose  judgment  fall  the  flails  of  war ; 
When  I  peruse  each  forfeit  welt  and  scar, 
And  think  how  sword  and  ermine,  still  forsworn, 
Record  their  shame ;  how  hardly  to  be  borne 
Is  furious  Tacon's  fury  still;  how  far 
Felicity  doth  lie  from  temple  bar 
Where  is  no  justice ;  when  I  see  thee  shorn, 
O  thou  dark-futured  pleader !  of  thy  grace, 
Whose  chiefest  crime,  thou  wast  too  fair  of  face,- 
Mine  is  no  tongue  to  trust !  the  captain's  hand 
Doth  hang  too  ruthless-heavy  on  thy  door, 
And  he  the  snow-white  judge  so  much  the  more 
Than  bloody  tyrant  reddens  all  the  land ! 


Not  at  This  Chancel 

58 


NOT  AT  THIS  CHANCEL 

Not  at  this  chancel  kneel ;  not  at  the  foot 
Of  Christ's  still  crucifix  bow  down,  O  Spain ! 
For  bloody  offense,  fire,  steel,  and  rout,  and  stain 
Of  taken  slaves ;  not  on  this  altar  put 
Such  murderous  Cuban  candle !  nay,  with  soot 
Smirched  in  the  face  from  stake  and  martyrs  slain, 
O  seek  not  here  thy  wasted  strength  again ! 
Find  thou  some  pagan  altar  thou  mayst  loot : 
Perchance  Cholula's  blood-bespattered  stones 
Will  smile  on  faithless  Cortez ;  or  the  proud 
Temple  of  Cuzco  bless  the  Spanish  bones 
That  slew  her  priests ;  or  from  his  clotted  shroud 
The  Moor  of  Aragon  beam  for  the  nones 
Upon  thy  cause :  if  thou  but  cry  aloud ! 


Saul  the  King 
59 


SAUL  THE  KING 

Arson  doth  laugh ;  grim  battle  laughs  his  fill ; 
The  earth,  the  red  earth,  holds  her  quaking  sides ; 
That  gaunt  guest  famine  knows  where  mirth  abides ; 
Fever  doth  flash  her  teeth,  her  swollen  heel 
Murdering  the  cheeks  of  children ;  the  wet  steel 
Doth  laugh,  and  it  have  food ;  each  crew  that  rides 
With  Death  makes  merry  of  the  crimson  tides  : — 
Shall  old  Madrid  not  laugh  with  right  good  will  ? 
Aye,  laugh,  aye,  laugh,  old  ruler !  as  that  gray 
Quibble  of  Endor,  at  his  witch-moored  broom ; 
Laugh  at  lean  Samuel,  from  the  grave  estray, 
Tolling  his  madness  (mirth  rest  on  his  tomb)  ; 
Aye,  laugh !  laugh !  laugh !     It  is  a  merry  play 
When  Saul  the  King  flings  shaking  from  the  room ! 


Ash-of -the- Altar 

60 

ASH-OF-THE-ALTAR 

The  censer's  cold ;  the  candle's  spent ; 
The  Priest  has  closed  the  sacred  tent ; 
Breathed  on  the  coal  till  it  is  dead ; 
Strewed  ash-of-the-altar  there,  instead. 

The  eastern  fire  was  on  his  brow ; 
His  forehead  lies  in  shadow  now. 
He  lived  his  winter's  day,  and  kept 
Faith  with  the  winter  stars,  and  slept. 

He  knew  the  summits  in  the  mist ; 
He  blazed  a  path  with  patient  wrist; 
His  gentle  fame  is  chiseled  there: 
All  that  he  was  of  high  and  rare. 

Oh,  to  the  mountain,  for  the  dawn! 
And  lock  the  temple :  he  is  gone. 
With  roses  and  all  wreathed  bloom 
Drape  the  door  of  the  empty  room. 

Wilbur  W.  Thoburn  :  i8gg. 


Herman 
61 


HERMON 

He  sat  within  his  garden-place, 
('Twas  tree-bloom  all  around), 

Pining  to  tread  the  peaks  of  light 
And  summits  winter-crowned. 

"O  for  the  open-minded  hills, 

With  outlook  for  the  soul ! 
Above  the  trees  and  fields !"  he  cried, 

"Where  Hermon's  waters  roll!" 

He  led  me  down  by  palm  and  pine ; 

He  plucked  me  roses  three ; 
His  sun,  his  shade,  his  tangled  glade, 

He  sealed  them  all  to  me. 

I  yielded  him  my  open  hills; 

He  gave  me  bower  and  mere, 
Which  was  fair  purchase-price,  I  ween, 

For  my  cold  heights  austere. 


Herman 

62 

But  oh !  my  lichens  drooped  and  died 

In  their  warm  beds  below ! 
And  oh !  his  roses  would  not  bloom 

Upon  my  fields  of  snow ! 

The  happy  hills  refused  him  joy : 

Mists  crowded  to  his  eyes ! 
And  I :  the  tangled  shade  grew  red 

Beneath  the  sultry  skies! 

God  made  me  for  the  morning  peaks, 

To  dwell  with  them  alone; 
God  made  each  yearning  thing  that  breathes 

For  heaven  of  its  own ! 

And  so  I  sent  him  back  his  flowers, 

And  hugged  my  crags  of  ice; 
God  give  him  peace  a  thousand  years 

In  his  rose-Paradise! 


Scot  and  Lot 
63 


SCOT  AND  LOT 

My  fingers  use  no  shepherd's  craft 
To  pipe  Pan's  dancers  to  thy  knee : 
No  honey-hearted  oaten  shaft 
To  shape  the  Orphic  strain  in  me. 

Ah,  no !     I  bring  thee  more,  my  friend ! 
I  blow  the  note  where  silence  falls! 
The  loudest  tone  hath  soonest  end : 
The  empty  are  the  noisy  halls ! 


Promise  of  Hawthorn 

64 

PROMISE  OF  HAWTHORN 

A  bough  of  hawthorn  buds  for  me? 
To-morrow  they  will  be  in  bloom, 
The  life  and  fragrance  of  the  tree! 
Aye,  they  already  change  the  room ! 

But  why  for  me,  who  have  not  earned 
Blessing  of  hawthorn  from  your  hand? 
Whose  lighted  forge-fires  have  not  burned  ? 
Whose  fields  still  fail  of  harvest-stand  ? 

Who  scarce  have  added  color-dole 
To  meagerest  canvas,  good  or  bad  ? 
No ;  nor  achievement  freed  my  soul 
Of  any  vision  that  I  had? 

You  say,  it  is  the  hawthorn's  need 
To  bear  May-blossoms?     You  esteem 
As  precious  as  the  ripened  deed 
The  scent  and  beauty  of  the  dream  ? 


Promise  of  Hawthorn 
65 

Sure,  dawn  hath  touched  them  on  the  brow ! 
White  daylight  trembles  on  their  eyes ! 
And  oh,  I  bless  your  hawthorn  bough ! 
To-morrow  shall  be  fragrant  skies! 


In  the  Spirit  of  Romance 

66 


IN  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ROMANCE 

Dark  mystery  of  shadowy  waters, 
Stars  through  the  branches,  comets  aflame 
On  mountain-side  and  mere, — fair  lake, 
Fair  evening  lake,  all  curve-begirt 
With  vanishing  paths  and  grassy  slopes, 
Dark  coves  and  shaded  landings,  where 
The  mandolin  and  soft  guitar, 
With  breathed  song,  and  blended  oar, 
In  old  romance  reply :  where  youth 
Reviews  the  various  failing  word 
In  trembling  ditty — timid  chord 
Compelling  shy  responses :  where 
Clear  chimes  from  far-off  elfin  tower 
Ring  sweetly  to  low  songs  of  love, 
And  glance  meets  glance  upon  the  glass, 
And  face  sees  face  among  the  stars : 
Where  laughing  maid  shy  cavalier 
Regards  from  her  safe  vantage-seat 


In  the  Spirit  of  Romance 
67 

Behind  soft-clinging  Persian  silk 

That  ripples  from  her  hand :  where  all 

Is  shadowy,  and  dim,  and  curtained 

Mistily  off  from  substance  things — 

O  lake!  (not  lake  but  elfin  pool 

While  beauty  drapes  thee  well :  while  veil 

From  mountain  spring  and  April  rain 

And  costliest  dainty  dew,  in  beauty 

Sweeps  from  thy  headlands !)  how  thy  banks 

Embrace  in  mystic  ring  to-night 

The  happy  singers  where  they  glide : 

Shape  evening's  soft  horizon-line 

Of  airiest  clouds  and  lovely  deeps 

To  prosper  marvels !     Would  they  might, 

Those  lovers,  riding  among  the  stars, 

Ride  on  forever  as  now  they  ride : 

Know  what  they  know,  have  what  they  have, 

My  lady's  pleasure  in  her  eyes 

That  she  is  lovely  and  desired : 

Her  true-heart's-love  as  he  is  woven 

Into  her  dreams  upon  the  sky ! 


In  the  Spirit  of  Romance 

68 

So  might  they  live  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Since  beauty  is  half  mystery, 
And  loveliness  revealed  in  all, 
With  nothing  left  to  be  revealed, 
Is  heart  of  loveliness  no  more — 
She  what  she  is,  and  all  beside, 
And  he  forever  strong  and  good : 
Nothing  but  this  until  the  end ! 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 
69 


THE  PRINCE  OF  PAUPERS 

The  Prince  of  Paupers  leaned  along  his  throne 
In  smoky  mood.     His  laughing  court  drew  nigh ; 
Them  seemed  some  one  great  enterprise  had  flown 
Like  wild-fowl  to  the  jungle,  that  his  eye 
Grew  sombre,  and  the  careless  waves  did  die 
From  the  clear  sunny  rivers  of  his  soul. 
But  no  avail :  it  was  his  day  of  dole. 

Ah,  they  were  poor  and  merry,  every  one ! 
And  their  pale  prince  was  merriest  of  all ! 
Rubies  and  ruddy  garnets  had  they  none ; 
No  gold-worked  arras  hung  upon  their  wall ; 
No  incense  from  Mukalla  or  Bengal 
Burned  in  their  censers ;  naught  of  price  they  had, 
No  meanest  taint  of  wealth  to  make  them  sad. 

No  beryl  bracelets ;  no  jade-wrought  brocades ; 
No  carcanets  of  gold  and  burnished  pearl; 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 

70 

No  inlaid  belts  nor  priceless  sabre-blades 
With  silver-work  along  the  hilted  whorl; 
No  wine-stained  crystal,  seeming  to  unfurl 
In  fragile  poppy-petals  to  the  dew ; 
No :  they  were  poor — this  merry-hearted  crew. 

But  now  mirth  stood  with  cypress  on  her  head ; 
The  happy  feet  were  stayed;  the  swirl  of  dance, 
Frozen  like  foam  in  winter,  whirled  and  sped 
Without  a  movement,  waiting  utterance 
Of  the  pale  prince.     At  last  he  dipped  his  lance. 
"O  chiefs,"  he  cried,  "a  riddle !     This  expound, 
Why  all  my  camels  lie  along  the  ground !" 

When  none  would  try  the  lock,  he  made  demand 

Upon  the  sages  of  his  ragged  court, 

The  wise  men  of  the  East,  in  triple  strand 

Who  bound  up  wisdom ;  they  had  gained  report 

Out  to  the  desert  cell  and  lone  resort 

Of  farthest  learning,  for  their  wizard  spells : 

Aye,  even  southward  to  El  Fasher's  wells. 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 
71 

He  named  his  ragged  sages ;  straight  they  kneeled. 
The  first  was  girded  round  the  loins  with  skins ; 
The  second,  his  brown  bosom  half-revealed, 
Wore  goats'-hair  tunic ;  on  the  third  begins 
And  ends  what  may  be  penance  for  his  sins, 
So  harsh  it  is — this  is  his  order's  sign, 
The  fitting  vesture  at  impoverished  shrine. 

The  tanned  bell-sage  spake  soothly  to  his  prince, 

Entreating  him  forget  his  lover's  grief ; 

She  is  not  worth  the  shifting  of  their  tents; 

Her  loss  is  but  the  loss  of  a  dead  leaf, 

One  grass-blade  fallen  from  the  harvest-sheaf. 

It  is  a  rival  hath  her  heart  away, 

Is  reason  why  she  will  not  keep  her  day. 

"That  is  no  reason !"  quoth  the  monarch  grim. 
He  asked  the  second  sage  how  he  should  read : 
If  bosom  brown  can  solve  this  writing  dim, 
Why  every  light  he  follows  doth  recede, 
And  no  well  more  hath  water  for  his  need ; 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 

72 

Why  he  is  sad,  whose  pleasure  is  not  gold ; 
Why  all  his  thoughts  are  darker  than  of  old. 

The  sage  with  tender  wisdom  looked  him  through ; 
He  stood  long  time  before  the  troubled  throne, 
Then  sad  and  fearless  told  him  all  he  knew, 
What  sand-storm  kills  true  love :  neglect  alone ! 
Neglect,  against  love's  snowy  blossoms  blown, 
Blackeneth  them  like  fire ;  neglect,  no  less, 
Is  reason  for  the  prince's  mourning  dress. 

"That  is  no  reason :  there  was  no  neglect !" 
To  sage  of  harshest  garb  the  prince  now  turned, 
Requiring  him  to  speak  his  heart  direct ; 
And  if  this  wizard's  word  from  book  was  learned 
Where  truth  looms  large,  it  straight  shall  be  dis 
cerned. 

If  not,  let  Folly  have  him  for  her  own : 
There  is  no  virtue  in  a  cell  alone ! 

The  last  and  oldest  sage  delays  his  speech, 
Lest  his  plain-spoken  word  offend  the  ear ; 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 

73 

He  cannot  choose  but  trace  the  riddle's  reach. 
The  prince  imperatively  bids  him  near, 
And  stint  not  of  his  breath  that  all  may  hear. 
"Ah,  then!  your  pauper's  court  is  reason  true! 
Your  poverty  hath  lost  your  love  to  you ! 

"Woman  was  cast  in  frail  luxurious  mould ! 

Not  like  the  man,  compact  of  godlike  thought, 

She  cannot  live  care-free  in  mansions  old 

The  while  she  ponders  how  the  stars  were  wrought^ 

Or  solves  dim  battles  that  her  fathers  fought : 

She  cannot  spring  in  blossom  from  the  plain, 

Glad  as  a  tree,  at  cost  of  winter  rain !" 

The  Prince  of  Paupers  beat  his  faded  breast : 

Him  seemed  the  shaft  of  truth  had  reached  his  heart. 

O,  it  was  sorrow  for  the  ragged  guest, 

And  sorrow  for  them  all,  to  see  him  start 

And  wrestle  to  pluck  out  the  barbed  dart ! 

"By  all  the  fiends !     I  shall  seek  nothing  now 

But  bloody  gold,  no  question  where  nor  how !" 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 

74 

Stepped  out  a  maid  with  sunshine  in  her  hair, 
The  light  of  sixteen  summers :  she,  dismayed 
No  whit  by  reason  of  the  sages  there, 
Stepped  forward  with  flushed  face  and  eyes  where 

played 

The  dawn  of  womanhood ;  calm,  unafraid, 
She  waited  for  her  prince  to  bid  her  speak, 
Then  said  her  woman's  creed  in  accents  meek. 

"O  Prince,  your  sages  are  of  wisest  men, 

But  they  have  never  looked  in  maiden's  eyes ! 

They  know  all  language  that  is  writ  with  pen, 

But  they  have  never  read  what  wisdom  lies 

In  woman's  smile,  for  all  that  they  are  wise ! 

O,  I  believe  them  wise  in  bookish  art, 

But  they  have  never  learned  from  woman's  heart ! 

"They  say  a  rival,  say  neglect,  to  you ! 
Those  are  two  letters  they  have  learned,  of  all 
The  woman's  alphabet !     These  will  not  do, 
So  they  cry  poverty,  with  faces  tall ; 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 

75 

Ah,  they  know  little  who  for  reasons  fall 
On  such  a  reason,  why  a  woman's  love 
Should  sink  so  low  from  glory's  heights  above ! 

"They  know  full  little !     O  far-cherished  Prince, 
Your  heart  can  tell  you  more  than  wisest  sage 
Of  this  life's  mystery — the  mellow  tints : 
The  silver  on  the  peaks :  the  smoothed-out  rage 
Of  all  this  world,  when  morning  strikes  the  page, 
And  love,  that  will  not  let  him  be  forgot, 
Adds  happy  turn  to  every  tragic  plot ! 

"Aye,  far  more  than  can  hermit  in  his  cell ! 
Then,  O  good  Prince,  ask  not  this  thing  of  him : 
Ask  your  own  heart,  and  see  you  mind  it  well ! 
So  shall  you  quaff  of  wonders  from  the  brim, 
And  know  what  truth  abides  in  vistas  dim, 
Even  in  the  realms  of  love,  that  now  are  near, 
And  now  most  distant-cold,  with  nothing  clear. 

"They  tell  you  love  must  have  her  tinsel-fee  ? 
No !     Your  betrothed  is  dreaming  now  of  you, 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 

76 

Your  colors  in  her  face,  where  all  can  see ! 

Your  drums  and  bugles  pierce    her    through  and 

through, 

And  when  they  beat  retreat  she  whitens  too ! 
O,  if  I  were  a  man,  I  think  that  I 
Should  soon  find  where  the  honey-gardens  lie !" 

The  maiden  ceased,  and  fear  ran  up  her  face ; 
With  timorous  outward  glance  she  shrank  aside, 
Ran  hotly  through  the  crowded,  silent  place,   » 
And  found  the  shaded  gardens,  where  her  pride 
Took  refuge  with  the  roses,  breath  denied. 
There  she  made  tarry  till  the  care  died  down 
Her  snowy  hand  had  brushed  from  prince's  crown. 

"Now,  by  my  beard,  she  is  the  sage  of  all ! 
Bugler,  blow  steed  and  stirrup,  and  no  let!" 
The  Prince  threw  off  his  melancholy  pall ; 
His  dismal  tones  returned  to  cabinet 
With  curious  vases  and  old  carvings  jet  ; 
He  drew  his  happy  hand  across  his  eyes 
And  left  them  cloudless  as  the  desert  skies. 


The  Prince  of  Paupers 

77 

No  more  he  spake,  but  sprang  to  saddle-trough ; 
Straight  the  dust  hid  him  that  his  riding  raised ; 
Far  down  the  highway  came  his  merry  laugh, 
Till  distance  took  him  wholly ;  not  amazed, 
His  chiefs  and  merry  men  that  laughter  praised 
Resumed  their  mirth  and  waited  him  again, 
Who  could  not  ride  with  care,  or  would  not  deign. 

So  ends  the  story :  laughter,  day  and  night ! 
The  fairest  bride  in  all  the  world,  I  ween ! 
The  happiest  prince  that  ever  worshiped  light ! 
These  blissful  lovers  kept  their  bridal  green 
In  chambers  of  the  sun  where  love  had  been 
A  ragged  guest  a  thousand  years  before ! 
Allah  them  keep  from  care  a  thousand  more ! 

And  she  that  led  them  had  her  worship  too ! 
The  modest  maid  that  saw  the  riddle  right, 
She  was  not  last  in  service  that  she  knew ; 
She  rides  among  the  stars,  forever  bright ! 
Oh,  when  her  children  crowd  the  paths  of  light, 
Allah  them  keep  in  knowledge  of  the  heart 
A  thousand  years,  to  prize  the  pauper's  part ! 


Mission  Carmel 

78 


MISSION  CARMEL 


O  magic  of  old  courts  and  twilight  halls ! 
Print  from  a  block  out-fashioned,  as  they  tell, 
Gray  Carmel  by  the  sea !  thy  ruined  walls, 
Dim  bones  of  walls,  all  in  a  ruined  dell, 
Still  do  they  bear  the  Ave  Mary  bell, 
Still  flash  with  cross  and  censer ;  though  the  blast 
Inhospitable  grind,  and  stormy  knell 
Break  on  their  clay,  still  guard  they  to  the  last 
The  peace  and  restful  beauty  of  their  gentle  past ! 

II 

The  misty  morning's  frosty  finger-tips 
Lay  lightly  on  her  brow  uncrimsoned ; 
But  oh,  what  crimson  fluttered  on  her  lips! 
And  oh,  what  echoes  echoed  soft,  and  fled 
Back  to  their  bosom,  hiding  all  their  red 


Mission  Carmcl 
79 

Behind  the  snowy  veil  where  crimson  stays ! 
Estelle  the  grave,  with  summer-bended  head ! 
Such  was  my  guide  by  hall  and  ruined  ways, 
While  all  the  walls  grew  sweet  with  bloom  of  other 
days. 

Ill 

Alas!  for  old  romance  and  idyls  sung: 
For  Jason's  fleece,  that  nibbled  precious  root 
On  the  hale  hills  of  Or  when  song  was  young ! 
How  can  she  sing  wide  eyes  and  golden  suit, 
Who  hath  not  tasted  yet  such  honeyed  fruit  ? 
What  should  bud  know  of  roses  ?     Yet  this  lay, 
This  master-music,  a  sweet-tongued  recruit, 
Whose  songs  of  love  and  life  were  learned  to-day, 
Sings  on  the  king-note  clear  as  braided  minstrel  may. 

IV 

Sings  on  the  king-note ;  a  heart's  master-need, 
And  how  the  hope  that  fadeth  blooms  anew ! 


Mission  Carmel 

80 

How  Eleanora,  who  each  rosary  bead 

Tells  off  to  the  sad  Virgin  as  her  due, 

Stands  in  her  sunset  casement!      Through    and 

through 

The  glory  stains  her  marble  wondrously ; 
Trembling  she  stands,  till  she  is  western  too ; 
She  knows  not,  save  her  shrine,  what  else  can  be 
So  dear  as  gold  and  pearl  when  sun  sets  in  the  sea. 

V 

So  ran  the  legend :  long  ago  it  fell ! 

O  still  she  stands  a-brooding,  all  her  dreams, 

Like  sparks  in  paper,  weaving  vagrant  spell, — 

Stands  in  her  casement,  thinking  how  it  seems 

To  scriven  magic  name  in  starry  beams ; 

And  still  Benito  creepeth  down  the  night, 

All  her  heart's  love,   with  eyes  where  worship 

gleams, 

Even  from  their  caverns  black,  with  lovely  light ; — 
And  still  the  vision  fades  that  burned  so  tender 
bright ! 


Mission  C arm  el 
81 

VI 

She  sighs,  and  fingers  her  heart-easing  beads, 
And  burns  white  prayers  at  shrine  of  maiden  blest ; 
Yes,  night  by  night  she  listens  for  the  steeds 
Of  her  winged  lover  riding  in  the  West; 
The  fierceness  of  her  hope  destroys  her  Vest ; 
Sometimes  she  dreams  he  beckons,  crowned  with 

light; 

Sometimes  when  she  awakes  she  hears  her  guest 
And  runs  to  meet  him  with  half- veiled  sight ; 
And  sometimes,  ah !  she  fears,  and  shuns  the  vision 

bright ! 

VII 

At  last  he  came.     Oh,  then  her  gardens  rang ! 
"Love  Eleanor,  love  Ellen,  come  with  me ! 
Oh,  hasten,  hasten,  hasten !"  soft  he  sang, 
"To  the  steep  mountain  paths  and  canyons  free! 
There,  there,"  he  said,  "from  every  balmy  tree 
And  shrub  of  healing  we  will  glean  our  weal ! 


Mission  Carmel 


Through  all  the  years,"  he  whispered,  "there  will 

we 

Each  day  to  memory  new  treasure  seal ! 
There,  there,  at  shrine  of  love  together  let  us  kneel !" 

VIII 

"  'Tis  weary  work,"  she  sighed,  "to  win  a  maid 
And  fight  her  battles  down  the  dusky  lane !" 
"My  sword  has  ancient  need  of  war,"  he  said. 
"Yes:  but  my  shadows  are  impinged  in  vain!" 
"If  not  your  ghosts,"  he  said,  "then  mine  amain !" 
Their  venture  called.     "Then  let  us  flee  the  feud," 
She  said,  "while  skies  are  starless  to  our  gain !" 
Their  gain!      That  chemist  night  such  ink  had 

brewed, 
No  more  was  faintest  light  in  all  the  world  accrued. 

IX 

"O  moon !"  she  cried,  "that  sweetly  hides  her  flame 
In  sour  eclipse  and  smoky  swart  constraint! 


Mission  Carmcl 
83 

O  stars!"  she  cried,  "for  Aphrodite's  fame 
That  veil  their  too-bright  beams  at  lovers'  plaint ! 
O  tender  vital  earth!  whose  sooty  taint 
Is  not  now  cloud,"  she  cried,  "but  bridal  robe !" 
What  speech  she  uttered  sounded  far  and  faint ; 
Then  died  to  silence,  lest  her  breathing  probe 
This  bubble  joy  she  nursed,  and  shatter  such  frail 
globe. 

X 

Her  wings  were  eager  for  adventures  new, 
And  one  she  loved  would  guide  her,  for  the  rest ; 
With    pinions    stretched-out    wide   to    bear   her 

through, 

Softly  this  fledgling  fluttered  from  her  nest ; 
And  black  night  took  them,  faith  and  faith  abreast ; 
Thousand-year  gorges  hid  them  down  the  world ; 
And  ever  one  sure  pathway  paid  their  quest ; 
And  always  brighter  one  dim  scroll  unfurled, 
Which  was  that  dream  their  life,  where  their  dark 

future  curled. 


Mission  Carmel 


XI 

It  was  the  dawn.     A  stain  crept  up  the  sky  ; 
The  night  had  not  yet  brushed  her  eyes  of  dew  ; 
Round  the  cool  earth  the  cloak  was  gathered  high 
Of   sleep,    and   not   a   dream  -  thought   showing 

through  ; 

With  drowsy  gems  and  star-heart  tears  of  rue 
The  yucca's  nodding  spires  were  mounted  bright  ; 
And  cactus  regiments  stood  where  they  grew, 
Confederate  and  armed,  to  guard  all  night 
The  beautiful  silent  desert  till  the  morning  light. 

XII 

The  stain  grows  older  round  the  serrate  edge 
Of  Orient  heaven  ;  now  th'  enkindling  swell 
Leaps  up  behind  the  sharp  horizon-ridge  ; 
And  now  the  East  has  bloomed  in  beauty-bell 
Of  blossoms  from  the  sea  —  petalled  in  shell 
And  streaming  with  pearls  and  coral,  and  the  stray 
Fire  of  blood-amber  ;  now  the  sentinel 


Mission  Carmel 
8s 

Crag-tips  flash  flame ;  and  now  lord  infant  day 
Flutters  a  million  windows  with  his  court's  array. 

XIII 

Oh,  steel  against  steel,  and  how  they  fight  for  life ! 

Pursuit   has   tracked   them   through   the   desert- 
dust, — 

Jose  the  hunchback,  and  his  men  of  strife! 

Oh,  useless  there  Benito's  frame  robust! 

Bootless  that  Ellen  screams  when  scream  she  must ! 

Soon  he  is  seized  and  bound,  and  she  is  bound ; 

They  hear  their  doom  where  they  are  thrown  to 
rust; 

Faintly  they  hear  faint  hoof-beats  'gainst  the 

ground, 
Then  but  their  breathing  hear,  the  only  desert  sound. 

XIV 

Stout  binding-webs  those  spider  ruffians  spun ; 
With  leathern  thongs  wedded  the  bridal  pair ; 


Mission  Carmel 

86 

Left  them  beneath  Mojave's  cloudless  sun. — 
Holy  Maria !  hear  a  suppliant's  prayer : 
Two  webbed  and  corded  skeletons  lay  there ! 
They  saw  them  from  the  future,  where  they  lay : 
For  desert  bones  are  white,  and  to  despair 
The  centuries  all  swiftly  slide  away! — 
There  meshed  and  bound  Jose  the  hunchback  left  his 
prey. 


XV 


Holy  Maria,  hear  a  suppliant's  prayer ! 

All  day  they  lay  beneath  the  desert  sun, 

And  evening  came,  and  dawn,  and  stifling  air 

Blew  o'er  them  till  the  stifling  day  was  done 

And  evening  came  again ;  speech  had  they  none, 

But  lay  half  in  a  swoon  beneath  the  stroke, 

And   dreamed   of   canyons,    where   cool   waters 

run, — 

Then  dreamed  of  spiders  and  harsh  desert-folk : 
Dreamed  all  of  fiends  and  spiders ;  and  at  dawn  they 

woke. 


Mission  Carmel 
87 

XVI 

Holy  Maria,  hear  a  suppliant's  prayer! 
Spiders  about  them,  spiders  all  around : 
Spiders,  that  loosed  the  fettered  ankles  there, 
And  swollen  wrists,  and  raised  them  from  their 

swound, 

And  bathed  their  burns  with  lenitives  renowned ! 
It  was  a  caravan  of  holy  friends, 
Brown  mission  priests,  across  the  desert  bound, 
Who  came  with  no  fierce  fire  to  push  amends, 
But  glowed  with  saintly  love,  that  all  in  service 

spends. 

XVII 

They  gave  the  lovers  their  own  saddle-beasts 

And  rode  on  swiftly  to  a  shaded  well, 

Far  in  the  desert,  known  to  mission  priests ; 

Then  on,  until  the  Ave  Mary  bell 

From  CarmeFs  towers  usurped  the  desert  spell, 

And  they  were  home.     They  led  the  strangers  in ; 


Mission  Carmel 


They  heard  the  honey-gall  they  had  to  tell; 

They  gave  them  cloistral  refuge,  ivy-green. 

Ah,  then !  the  cool  arcades  how  eloquent-serene ! 

XVIII 

With  praise  how  eloquent  and  joy  how  full ! 
Through  shaded  court  they  wandered  hand  in 

hand ; 

By  splashing  fountains  filled  with  waters  cool 
Seated,  they  told  their  love ;  or  on  the  sand 
By  the  sweet  sea  they  breathed  the  breezes  bland ; 
The  final  peace,  the  last  repose,  was  there ; 
Where  there  was  need,  they  were  the  first  to  stand ; 
In  every  willing  service  they  did  share ; 
But  when  glad  task  was  done  love  knew  no  more  of 
care. 

XIX 

And  there  the  hills — O  miracle  complete ! 
The  hills  were  all  awash  with  poppied  gold : 


Mission  Carmel 
89 

The  native  poppies,  flashing  forth  in  sheet 

Of  instant  fire  the  life  hid  in  the  mould 

About  their  roots ;  the  fertile  soil  could  hold 

No  more ;  and  when  the  breezes  took  their  tops, 

Lifting  the  golden  petals  fold  from  fold, 

They    paled    to    silver-and-amber,    dashed    with 

drops 
Of  green,  and  crimson  bells,  and  waxen  buttercups. 

XX 

Who  then  but  Eleanora  loved  the  flowers  ? 
Who  but  Benito  loved  the  fragrant  breeze, 
The  sea's  salt  breath,  in  pyramidical  showers 
Spilling  the  heavy  blossoms  from  the  trees? 
Who  but  these  two  were  eager  all  to  please 
The   pastor   priests,   that   soothed   their    desert- 
plight? 

The  sweet-breathed  kine,  the  organ-winged  bees, 
The  birds,  the  chimes,  the  songs,  the  moon  at 

night, — 
Where  but  at  Mission  Carmel  was  there  such  delight  ? 


Mission  Carmel 

90 

XXI 

There  they  were  happy,  long  ago :  and  still 
Their  music  lingers ;  still  the  silvern  lute 
Trembles  to  touch  of  passion,  by  the  skill 
Of  song  and  story  threading  that  old  suit; 
And  still  are  Carmel's  gardens  sweet  with  fruit ; 
Still  strewn  her  desert  courts  with  summer  snow ; 
Still  her  towers  vocal  that  for  aye  are  mute ; 
And  her  brown  priests,  the  singer  bids  me  know, 
Still  do  they  smile  on  lovers  as  in  long  ago ! 

XXII 

When  that  Estelle  reclothed  these  happy  walls 
She  turned  to  rob  them  of  their  softest  grace ; 
She  would  have  shunned  the  legendary  halls ; 
And  when  I  spoke  she  turned  away  her  face ; 
And  then  the  woman  in  her  ebbed  apace 
And  the  white  lilies  mounted  to  her  brow ; 
Then  blood-red  roses  blossomed  in  their  place ; 
And  then  she  fled, — or  stayed !  no  matter  how, 
For  there  the  story  ended,  as  it  endeth  now. 


The  Rose  of  Death 


THE  ROSE  OF  DEATH 


It  was  a  brown  old  convent-hall ; 
Far  from  the  world  it  reared  its  wall 

In  gardens  of  the  sun ; 
And  there  were  monks  to  pray  within ; 
Pale  monks,  who  scourged  their  souls  of  sin 
With  ashes  of  penance,  peace  to  win 

When  their  harsh  day  was  done. 

II 

Oh,  our  good  Christ  in  heaven  above 
Healed  them  and  clothed  them  with  his  love ; 

So  well  Christ  by  his  power 
Loved  them,  he  held  back  sudden  death, 
But  sent,  to  shape  their  passing  breath, 
A  white  rose  from  no  earthly  wreath, 

To  tell  their  dying  hour. 


The  Rose  of  Death 

92 

III 

Ever  and  aye,  for  gentle  sign 

How  Christ  smiled  on  their  lonely  line, 

That  rose  of  grace  came  down ; 
And  always  the  dead  saint  for  shrift 
Withdrew  in  cloister,  where  to  sift 
His  life's  last  pearls  from  the  shore-drift 

To  deck  his  burial-gown. 


IV 


"Mine  eyes,  would  they  might  see  the  sign," 
Quoth  Carlos,  "and  that  rose  were  mine, 

To  blaze  upon  my  couch ! 
Oh,  long  and  long  I  wait  the  day, 
Thou  alabaster  Christ!  to  lay 
This  sinful  corse  in  earth  away, 

And  seal  the  rood's  avouch !" 


The  Rose  of  Death 

93 

V 


Felix,  how  can  he  love  his  life : 
Carlos,  why  should  he  tire  of  strife : 

The  frail  frame  and  the  strong? 
For  Felix,  health  dwelt  in  the  moon : 
His  world  held  no  such  precious  boon : 
Ah,  sure,  he  should  not  care  how  soon 

Christ  haled  him  to  His  throng! 


VI 


Yet  so  it  was.     At  vesper  bell 

Lame  Felix  dragged  him  from  his  cell, 

And  dragged  him  back  unblest ; 
And  then  he  sank  into  his  place, 
And  lifted  soon  his  weary  face : 
In  his  brown  couch  the  flower  of  grace, 

Christ's  stainless  rose,  was  pressed. 


The  Rose  of  Death 

94 

VII 

"The  Sign!  and  I,"  he  said,  "have  died! 
The  bridegroom  taken  from  the  bride : 

My  life  from  me  so  soon ! 
While  Carlos  kneels  for  that  cold  kiss 
Until  his  winter's  evening,  this 
My  youth  fares  ill,  and  may  not  miss 

Cruel  eclipse  at  noon!" 

VIII 

There  Felix  gazed  it  in  the  eye, 
The  Sign  that  came  to  help  him  die. 

Alas !  he  could  not  pray ! 
Alas !  alas !  with  ragged  feet 
He  creeps  out  to  the  argent-seat, 
And  then,  alas !  from  the  brown  sheet 

He  steals  the  rose  away. 


IX 

Steals  it  away  beneath  his  gown, 
And  soon,  alas !  the  flower  lays  down 

Where  no  one  sees  him  go ; 
He  strews  it  where  Saint  Carlos  sleeps  ; 
Lays  it  on  his  smooth  couch,  and  creeps 
Back  to  the  vigil  that  he  keeps, 

And  breathings  fast  and  slow. 


Betimes  turned  Carlos  to  his  cell: 

And  raised  his  eyes ;  and  straight  must  tell 

In  gold  all  he  did  see ! 
New  wisdom  smoothed  his  visioned  brow : 
Song  kissed  his  lips :  for  him  the  bough 
Bloomed  and  bore  fruit,  and  none  knew  how, 

Of  earth's  old  poesy. 


The  Rose  of  Death 

96 

XI 

"O  coal  from  odorous  incense- jar: 
O  rose !  how  sweet  to  me  you  are ! 

I  burn  you  into  my  breast 
And  live,"  he  cried,  "at  last,  at  last ! 
Scar  on  my  breast,  I  hold  you  fast ! 
Home  pennant,  I  break  you  from  the  mast; 

So  sail  we  into  the  West !" 


XII 

Good  Carlos  counts  his  dying  beads 
(The  token  lights  him  all  he  needs), 

His  sins  for  to  atone ; 
Before  the  knotted  cross  he  kneels : 
Down  on  the  blistered  flags  he  seals 
His  aching  knees,  till  morning  steals 

O'er  him,  and  the  white  Son ; 


97 


XIII 

He  bends  his  beads  again  and  again 
Till  glory  breaks  in  the  East.     Amen. 

All  night,  till  night  is  dead 
And  burning  on  her  funeral  pyre : 
All  day,  in  light  of  that  bright  fire 
Till  it  dies  out,  the  prostrate  friar 

Humbles  his  wintry  head : 

XIV 

Kneels  in  the  fragrant  twilight  air : 
Kneels,  till  they  find  him  murdered  there, 

All  crimson  where  he  trod ; 
He  had  no  white  rose  in  his  hand : 
There  was  no  snow  where  he  did  stand : 
The  token-flower  burned  like  a  brand : 

Turned  red  with  his  heart's  blood ! 


The  Rose  of  Death 


XV 

They  stood  and  marveled,  every  one ; 
They  kneeled  and  said  hush'd  benison 

Where  his  white  frame  was  shed; 
And  they  laid  Carlos  in  the  ground, 
Drew  clods  on  him,  and  pressed  him  round, 
And  laid  the  red  rose  on  the  mound 

Forever  to  mark  his  bed. 


XVI 

Felix  they  buried  by  his  side ; 

And  oh,  they  marveled  how  he  died 

Whom  Christ  called  not  away ! 
And  oh,  they  marveled  at  the  bloom 
That  sprung  from  Carlos'  crimsoned  tomb, 
And  why  nor  bud  nor  blade  May's  loom 

Wove  from  his  neighbor's  clay ! 


The  Rose  of  Death 

99 


XVII 

But  most  in  this  they  marveled,  how 
Nothing  of  white  but  failed,  since  now 

Saint  Carlos  died  amain; 
How  murder  lost  all  love  had  earned ; 
How  the  bright  flower  of  omen  burned 
No  more ;  Christ's  grace  no  more  returned, 

Nor  aught  of  Sign  again! 


THE  SIN  OF  DAVID 

By  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

Author  of  "  Ulysses,"  etc. 
Cloth  16  mo.  $1.25  net 

"Ulysses"  was  accepted  as  proving  Mr.  Phillips's  right 
to  the  title  of  "the  greatest  living  poet  of  English  speech." 
Constructive  power  and  creative  genius  are  rarely  found  in 
such  perfect  combination  as  in  his  brilliant  dramas.  The  new 
play  is  not,  however,  biblical,  as  has  been  assumed  since  it  was 
first  announced  under  the  title  of  "  David  and  Bathsheba." 
The  theme  is  clearly  indicated  by  the  title,  but  the  play  opens 
in  the  Army  of  Cromwell,  and  runs  its  course  during  the  Eng 
lish  Civil  War. 

ULYSSES 

A  drama  in  a  prologue  and  three  acts 
By  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

Cloth  16  mo.  $1.25  net 

"  That  a  young  man  should  in  so  short  a  time  have  sent 
us  all  back  to  read  our  Dante,  our  Josephus,  and  our  Homer, 
is  no  small  achievement,  and  that  after  reading  them  we  have 
pronounced  the  young  man's  work  not  unworthy  of  mention 
in  the  same  breath  with  the  masters,  is  high  enough  praise." 
— Boston  Budget. 

WHEN  THE  BIRDS  GO 
NORTH  AGAIN 

By  MRS.  ELLA  HIGGINSON 

Author  of  "  The  Voice  of  April-land  and  other  poems." 
Cloth  16  mo.  $1-25  net 

"They  have  melody  to  an  unusual  degree,  and,  like  her 
stories,  show  an  ardent  love  of  natural  beauty.  In  emotion, 
they  range  from  the  merry  to  the  gravest  moods." — Providence 
Journal, 

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THE   DYNASTS 

A  drama  of  the  Napoleonic  wars 

In  three  parts,  nineteen  acts,  and  one  hundred  and  thirty  scenes 
Cloth  12  mo.  $1.50  net 

"The  ripe,  disinterested  labor  of  a  man  who  has  always  had  a  genius 
for  getting  at  the  human  soul,  and  who  in  dealing  with  this  great  subject  of 
the  Napoleonic  wars  in  a  psychological  manner,  undertakes  a  large  em 
prise."—  Chica£o  Tribune. 

THE   DIVINE  VISION 

By  A.  E. 

Cloth  16  mo.  $1.25  net 

"  The  volume,  although  small,  is  of  very  exquisite  rarity  and  tran 
scendent  charm.  Not  only  is  its  spirit  one  of  ethereal  beauty,  but  in  form, 
too.  it  holds  a  level  of  fine  unwontedness  and  abounds  in  single  lines  of 
haunting  perfection  and  large  melody."—  The  Boston  Transcript. 

POEMS 

By  GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY 

Cloth  12  mo.  $1.50  net 

"  The  Outlook  has  already  commented  very  fully  on  the  rare  intellec 
tual  and  poetic  quality  of  Prof.  Woodberry's  work  in  verse.  .  .  .  Those 
who  have  been  attracted  to  it  in  the  past  have  found  in  it  a  quality  of 
thought,  of  interest,  and  of  art  which  gives  it  a  permanent  place  in  their 
affections."—  The  Outlook. 

SONGS  OF  MOTHERHOOD 

Selected  by  E.  J.  H. 

Cloth  16  mo.  $1.25  ne 

This  is  a  volume  of  poems  for  young  mothers,  and  celebrates  the 
beauty  and  miracle  of  motherhood.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  is 
in  the  market  no  book  of  this  special  kind  and  field.  Every  selection  is 
cheerful ;  thoughtfulness,  hopefulness  and  inspiration  are  the  keynotes. 
Some  very  unusual  poems  have  been  included,  like  those  from  Alma 
Tadema.  William  Canton,  Henry  Timrod.  Richard  Realf.  T.  B.  Aldrich, 
Richard  LeGallienne  and  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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Form  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


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